Soulstitcher
by Joachim Myrdal
Summary: Chapter 3: Aurelio and Danielle if you remember them at all share a moment when they finally find each other once again. Will anything come of it? Please review.
1. Preparation

"Miss Carpenter, the gadfly metaphor was _not _intended in that way."

"How do you know?"

"It's historically true that we've only used the term 'horse's ass' for the last two hundred years." Chuckles swept the classroom. "Socrates only used equine hindquarters to refer to Athenian society, not to insult it."

"But Professor, you don't _know _Socrates' intent, do you?"

"Well, no, but it can be inferred from – "

"Professor," another girl spoke up, a tall, deep-voiced blonde, "you told us yourself inferences can be dangerous. Aren't you being kind of hypocritical?"

"Miss Whittard, it is in the nature of most philosophers to be hypocritical. Our thoughts often contradict themselves in terms and spirit. The great thing about actively pursuing the study of philosophy is that you can be a hypocrite and get away with it."

"Professor," a third one cut in, this one redheaded and freckled, "wouldn't that just be sophistry? I thought philosophy was a search for truth."

"It is, Miss Ordway. However, 'truth,' as we search for it, is neither a constant quantity, nor a predictable one. Truth can change from time to time, and often does, more than we'd expect." Miss Whittard raised an eyebrow. "We are sadly not blessed with the ability to stop time, or to keep circumstances from changing. We age. We die. Empires rise, and then fall. Prime Ministers are elected." Another round of chuckles. "Time changes. The rest of the world goes on. If we fail to adapt . . . we become obsolete."

"How do we adapt, Professor?" the redheaded girl asked.

"Well, obviously we can't expect time to wait for us. He who hesitates is lost, and never is that more true than when we're talking about someone whose very _duty _it is to analyze what's going on around him – or her." He looked over the three girls at the rest of the class. "Who can tell me what the maid said to Thales of Miletus?"

"How can you look so wonderingly at the beautiful stars," a fourth, very familiar, voice said, "if you can't even see what's at your feet, Thales?"

"Well, I doubt it was said with such embellishment, Miss Belacqua, but in essence you are correct." He smiled. "What brings you to my humble classroom?"

"There's someone calling on you, Professor."

"Well, he can wait until after the class is done. Five minutes."

"It's a woman, Professor, and she says it's urgent."

"Right." He looked down for a moment and thought. "Class dismissed. No immediate assignments, but as usual, go home and think."

More than a few of the girls waved good-by at him as they left: he tried not to smile too widely. Dame Hannah had told him why male Scholars were uncommon here, but as he'd been warned, the woman had exaggerated. Once the classroom was empty except for him, Miss Belacqua met him halfway across.

"Who is it, Lyra?"

"She identified herself as a fellow of yours."

"I assume you checked for the marks?"

"Of course."

He nodded, put on his glasses, and followed Lyra out of the classroom, hands in his pockets. Every once in a while a Scholar or student would pass by and either greet him or ask him a question, and he tried to answer as best he could without slowing down. Lyra kept a quick pace in front of him, making way through the college's corridors.

"You're sure she asked specifically for me?"

"I'm not an idiot, Professor," she replied. "Dame Hannah bade her wait in the Rectory. I daresay we'll find her there as well."

"Good work on your pronunciation."

They didn't say much else until they left the main building, crossed the grounds, and found the Chamberlain at the Rectory's door. After a short and hurried conversation with Lyra, he nodded them through, and almost immediately he detected a familiar scent in the air – jasmines, although Dame Hannah kept no flowers in the Rectory.

There was only one other person in the Rectory's entrance room, and Beatrice Keller stood up now and walked towards them. She was older than he remembered her, but that was only one or two more wrinkles than she'd had in his mind: the hard curve of her chin, the taut line of her posture, and the elegance of her gestures were the same.

Her eyes were the same, as well – the same misty gray they had been, as long as he, or she, could remember. The color of blindness.

"Beatrice," he said softly. "Where's Koubek?"

"Some bastard murdered him some time ago." Beatrice extended her hand in anticipation of him doing the same with his own, and they shook. "I avenged him well."

"As we all expect."

"I have not been well informed, my dear fellow. Diego hurried me over here, and news have not yet reached me." She gestured at him to sit. "What goes on?"

"Before I tell you that, Beatrice, I must ask you to meet someone."

"Your miracle?"

"If anything, the miracle is her own," he said, ignoring Lyra's burning cheeks. "Miss Lyra Belacqua, meet Miss Beatrice Keller."

They shook hands – Beatrice had an almost unnatural skill at it – and then he and Lyra sat across from her. The Chamberlain came to offer them all refreshments, but they all politely refused him.

"Well then, Vincent?"

"Truth be told, I haven't been well informed either. I've been hiding from the Black Rose for the past year." He sighed. "Lyra and I aren't out of danger yet."

"It's a wonder you haven't been found yet."

"I agree," he replied, "but if news and talk were all you came for, Beatrice, you wouldn't have come at all. There's something else you need from us, isn't there?"

For a moment, no one spoke. The soft glow of the naphtha lamps brushed the edges of Beatrice's face and lit her eyes up every so often. Her fox daemon, Ethelred, the only one in the room, settled on her lap and shook his bushy tail.

"As I'm sure you know, it hasn't yet been ascertained whether the First, or any of his companions, survived the Black Rose's assault on our hall."

"Indeed."

"Until it has, Vincent, you doubtlessly understand that we are leaderless, and without guidance, we will surely perish."

"That I do doubt."

"But you would surely – "

"What Beatrice means," Ethelred interrupted, "is that without yours and Lyra's help, we are, colloquially put, 'up a creek without a paddle.' Aside from Lord Olmedo, you are the only Watchers of whose existence we are certain."

"True."

"Then you clearly see why we need your help, don't you?"

"Of course I do." He stood. "However, Beatrice, it is not only my own life I protect by refusing to take the first move. I _do _have a responsibility."

"Vincent, I'm _nineteen _– " Lyra began.

"But you are not yet a mature Watcher. You have excellent potential, undeniably, but your training has left much to be desired since we had to go underground."

"You told me once the best training was done in the field."

"I also told you once I'd try to spare you that much agony."

"We both lost our parents," she retorted. "We've both faced pain. You can't tell me I'm not ready for your training."

"Perhaps."

"Vincent, I respect your talents as a teacher and as a Watcher," Beatrice added gently, "but Lyra's right. She'll never really understand the depth of her powers if you don't allow her to experiment, to apply what she's learned."

"That much is true."

He paced around the room, hands on his hips. He felt uncomfortable, both because of the company, and because of the way this world made him feel.

"Beatrice, and if you took her?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"You said yourself Koubek was dead. Why not take Lyra as a new assistant, while you reassemble the Watchers?" Lyra raised an eyebrow. "She's certainly got the training for such a mission, and you've always been a better field instructor than I."

"Subjectively, it may be true," Beatrice said, petting Ethelred, "and yet your proposal speaks of ulterior motives. Have you some other need to stay in Oxford?"

He knew she'd answer with that, and knew he had no prepared answer to give her – but anything he could have said would have been taken as a lie.

"I do not need to stay in Oxford, no. But if I am to help you on this mission, I would rather not encumber your travel, or Lyra's."

"Somehow you're finding this difficult to say."

"Very much so." He blushed; he suspected Lyra's blushing wasn't visible only because of the red glow of the lamps. "I do not wish to separate myself from you, nor is it with any sort of pleasure that I would do it. But it may be the only way to – "

"I understand," she said. "What will we do?"

"You and I, Lyra, must find an expert on chthonic travel. I daresay Professor Benjamin Cartwright shall do, if we can find him." She turned to him. "And you?"

"For the moment, I do not know. If you have anything to suggest . . . "

"Very well. We shall have to be going, then, before I am found out by the Black Rose." She kissed him on the cheek and left. "I shall arrange for a carriage, Lyra."

"Thank you."

He hadn't noticed the hard angle of Lyra's shoulders until Beatrice had left, and by then it was gone, and she stepped in front of him. He suddenly noted how much she'd changed in a year: how her posture had grown strong and the last vestiges of innocent girlhood had disappeared from her gaze. Then he scratched his head.

"You really don't know what you're going to do?"

"If I had any idea, Lyra, I would tell you."

"I know." She kissed him, just a short kiss, and stepped past him. "Good-by."


	2. Insistence

He had just closed his travelling case when he heard someone knock at the door. It wasn't Lyra, or Beatrice – he had seen them off not two hours ago – and the sound indicated a lack of confidence in the home the knocker was approaching.

With all that, he wasn't much surprised when he opened the door and found Miss Whittard there, shivering in the last wisps of autumn.

"Hello, sir."

"Miss Whittard," he replied, "come in before you freeze to death, and then I'm afraid you'll have to explain yourself."

She walked in, still quivering a bit, and he closed the door behind her. He quickly noted the dirty hem of her skirt, the bits of black dust on her right cheek, and the scratch across the back of her left hand, and spoke before she could open her mouth.

"How long have you been following me?"

"Just an hour, Professor," she said, turning now to face him. "I saw you at the train station and followed you here."

"And nearly caught pneumonia waiting?"

"I went back to the school," she admitted. "I came back later."

"You should have taken a coat while you were out there."

"I know – I was just – "

"Miss Whittard," he said in a sterner tone, "are you going to tell me why you're standing in my hall, or do I have to figure it out somehow?"

"I heard you talking to Lyra."

He had been too busy trying to find her a coat, but when she said that his neck snapped upright and he looked directly at her. Why wasn't her daemon there?

"Miss Belacqua is going on a trip with a Scholar. I daresay it's quite the opportunity for her – and yet," he added in a mutter, "I can see you scented a similar one for yourself."

"Whatever you were talking about with her, it involved no Scholars, Professor."

"Well, Miss Whittard, I am afraid what it _was _will have to remain between Miss Belacqua and I. Perhaps some other time – "

"Oh, bugger, Professor, can't you just take me wherever it is you're going?"

"It's far too late, Miss Whittard. I have a zeppelin to catch, and there's only one seat provided for in the reservation." He smirked. "If you'd rather travel in a bag – "

"There must be some other arrangement."

"There must be, but I am not willing to stand here with you and discuss those possibilities." He was beginning to find this appearance quite the inconvenient one. "And as you well know, Miss Whittard – you _are_ one of the sharpest minds in my class – when one party refuses to be a party to the argument, debate must cease."

"When a party that has _control _over the other party refuses."

"I daresay my authority as a Scholar grants me enough – "

"Oh_, please, _Professor."

He caught the out-of-place accent a moment before the girl suddenly swung some invisible club at him; fortunately for his head, it was enough for him to duck, though he felt the wind rush over him. He'd have a bit of time before a second swing – he aimed for her stomach and crumpled her right where she stood with a good, _crushing _pang.

"Miss Whittard, now really, I should've told you all before about attacking your professors, but this is ridiculous."

She raised a hand – but before she could do anything he struck her again, this time forcing the pain through her ribcage. God, how he hated hurting women, the way the pain resounded through Leochléanne's consciousness and into his – it was much easier to do this to men . . .

Speaking of Leochléanne, she now fluttered to his shoulder, sinking her talons into his coat for purchase.

"You _really _screwed it up this time, Vincent," the owl whispered in his ear.

"Shut up," he said for once. "Miss Whittard? May I ask what in the _name of Hell _possessed you to attack me?"

She didn't answer immediately – but then she lunged, and the sheer ferocity caught Vincent off guard. He reached out, grasped the neck of her shirt, and flipped her over on the floor. By some coincidence he avoided scratching her against anything, despite the acute lack of floor space in the place.

"Miss Whittard, despite the rather small difference in our ages, I am still your professor, and this is _quite_ a violation of the school's rules."

"Exactly _what _do you think – "

Vincent didn't hear the end of that sentence, because he'd finally placed the accent: in Lyra's world, it wasn't an independent state. Yet he remembered being at the Krakow court and hearing the voice of Emperor Karel of Galicia.

"You're Slavic, aren't you?"

"What do _you _care?"

"Well – " She tried to punch him in the face; he pinned down her arm. "Since you're already withholding your _real _name from me, I'm going to give you a choice. You can either stop resisting me and answer my questions or I can start removing your clothing."

"You wouldn't _dare_."

"Watch me." He reached for the top button on her shirt, ignoring Leochléanne's talons digging deeper into his shoulder. "Trust me, Miss Whatever-your-name-actually-is, I'm not exactly interested in anything beyond finding out if there are some markings on your left shoulder."

"Markings?" She laughed. Her British accent was back. "What do you mean? And besides, Professor, I shall scream if you remove so much as a stitch from me."

She had him there – he'd never actually _seen_ the markings on the Imperial Guards. For all he knew their shoulders had a fat turkey inked on them.

"Regardless, I am still in control here." He switched the hold on the button to a soft touch around her neck. "I suppose you realize just how easily I could strangle you."

"I shall resist."

"I have no doubt you will." Sometimes Leochléanne could be idiotic. Like _now_, when he was sure he was bleeding under his coat. "On the other hand – "

The girl went limp. Surrendered. He could feel – through Leochléanne and her finely-tuned emotion detector – the resignation.

"Teresa Zhukov."

"What?"

"My name is Teresa Zhukov." She was avoiding looking his eyes. "You can strip me, if you like. I'm not an Imperial Guard."

"You _are _a Slav, though."

"Muscovite, raised in Lodz. My father was a sergeant in the Imperial Guard. My mother . . . she died giving birth to me."

"I'm sorry."

He was also partly sorry that the story sounded like a perfect lie, but he wasn't about to show that much distrust: he let go of her and stood. Leochléanne finally let his shoulder loose of her talons and fluttered up to the staircase.

"Well _now _I'm all disappointed."

"Don't make me laugh." He extended a hand to help her up. "Miss Zhukov, you do realize that I can't leave you in Oxford."

She smirked at him, and he knew she'd planned this the whole time. In the back of his brain, Leochléanne praised the girl's cunning.

"You'll get your wish, apparently – you'll be coming along with me for the moment. But as I cannot shut your mouth permanently, and in any case would not want to, as you are quite a scintillating conversationalist, I will place a ward about you."

He extended a hand and began threading the shield around her: anyone sensitive to the vibrations of Watcherwork, like her, would feel them as waves on a calm shore.

"I _will_ know if you denounce me, or Lyra, or both." He steeled himself. "Should you, I will cause you pain beyond anything you have ever known."

"You wouldn't – "

Before she could finish the sentence, the breath had flowed out of her lungs and throat, and she hung there for a second or two, unable to draw air. Then he released the vise about her neck and watched her cough for a while. Leochléanne _tsk_ed in his brain, and even he had to admit something was wrong with him.

He was _liking_ hurting her.

Why?

* * *

**Thanks to:**

_Readers: _Regardless of your number, you took time out to read the story, and I appreciate that.

_E.C. Florek: _Thank you very much.

_holycleopatra: _This should be the last chapter with my typical over-dialogue-ness. I'm beginning to work on it in Chapter 3 (writing as we speak).


	3. Solitude

**Author's Note: **First, I'm sorry for not having posted this sooner. I haven't been reading much, nor have I been able to write much lately, what with everything that's been going on - but that really should've been no excuse to stay away from this for so long. Unfortunately, I still can't promise that I'll update this anything close to regularly, but if you so wish it, I'm willing to try some sort of regular schedule that'll let me keep my sanity and keep coming up with ideas.

I also realize this chapter is shorter than my usual three-pagers: specifically, I had to end it early on in the second. That's because I've been trying to extend it beyond that for a very long time, and it hasn't worked out any way I tried, except this. I realize that it doesn't exactly set up major plot points, but it does explore two characters that I haven't had time to really look at yet, two characters that I planned would become far more important in the story now. So I found it rather necessary to tell this part of the story as well.

I hope you enjoy it.

--

"Put the sword away," the woman said. "It's Danielle."

"Hood down."

It was stupid of him to demand that – it was easier to mimic a Watcher's face than her voice – but when he saw her face appear from under the hood the blade in his hand trembled before he could lower it properly. She smiled and approached him, hands raised.

When she did reach him, however, her hands snaked around his shoulders, and before he knew it she had drawn him into the tightest embrace of his life. She burrowed her face into his shoulder, put her arms around him, and sobbed, her hands feeling about his back, her lips kissing again and again his coat, and all he could do was clumsily guide his arm around her and hold her close as well, hoping the warmth would do what all his words could not.

"God, Aurelio . . . what happened to you?"

"This?" he said, pointing at his right sleeve, lying half-flat against his chest. "Flesh wound."

"Flesh wound," she repeated, holding the cloth between two fingers. "Flesh wound? Flesh wound my ass, Aurelio – you're _missing an arm_!"

"Calm down, it stopped bleeding a couple days ago."

Danielle did something she'd never done before – she slapped him.

He'd received worse backhands before, but the surprise caught him off-guard, and he landed squarely on his ass before he realized what had just happened.

"You bastard," she said. A wonder she could get the words out with her lip quivering like that. "You have any idea how scared I was?"

"Probably not. Care to elaborate?"

He gestured to the ground beside him – comfortable, if not necessarily dry – and she sat, looking outside, eyes darting every few seconds to the empty sleeve lying across his lap.

"Hieronymus is dead."

"I surmised as much," Aurelio replied. "It's a shame."

He did a double take before he realized Danielle's expression was one of incredulity, and only then did it strike him as strange he hadn't said anything else.

"You'd think you could spare a few more words for your First, Aurelio." Danielle shook her head. "Especially as you're replacing him."

"What, for the three of us who are still alive?"

"You're not counting Lyra, even if we haven't formally inducted her. There are at least four of us alive, and I left at least two others with reasonable chances of survival."

"Six. So much better than my original estimate."

"Double your original estimate, Aurelio." She smiled and ran a finger under his chin. "You haven't been shaving, I see."

"Too much trouble with my left. I can barely hold a sword right."

Danielle nodded, smiled, and put her arms around him, and he noticed there were new tears in her eyes – though he had only a second to do it before her face disappeared into his coat again, and he felt her gloved fingers drumming on his neck and back, rubbing against his skin.

"I thought I'd lost you, Aurelio."

"I – " He gulped. "Danielle, I'm fine."

"Well, _I _didn't know that – for God's sake, Aurelio, I've been wandering the Ways for the last month! I haven't heard from anyone – _anyone_!"

He almost put his right arm around her, realized he couldn't, and settled for his left. She seemed to appreciate the effort, at least.

There was silence. Not true silence, as the cave had its own little noises he'd gotten used to, but silence enough, and for the first time in a while he felt something very much like hope. Maybe it was warmth, from Danielle's body against his coat . . . but no, this was something inside him, he knew it.

"Care to watch me sleep, Danielle?"

"I should hit you for suggesting it," she said, that toothy grin of hers obvious even in the darkness, "but for once, Aurelio, I'm going to let you think you've won."

--

_Pan3345: _Horribly sorry for making you wait - thanks for having read and reviewed, I much appreciate it.

_Mr Mac 5575Lol: _I believe I spoke to you, and quite frankly, lied to you over email about updating. I'm sorry I told you I'd be updating soon - in all fairness, I made a serious effort to finish this chapter, and I just couldn't find a way, but I also couldn't scrap it. This is the result.

_235 hits, 3 favorites, 1 alert_ - It means a lot to a writer who can't seem to finish two chapters' worth of an original novel that people are looking to read his work enough that they'll receive alerts when he finally gets off his lazy ass and updates. So I thank all of you for having stuck by me so far.


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